My brow furrows. “Or, well, they are, but I feel like there might be other types of fun I’m missing out on.”
It’s enough of a confession. I don’t tell Elle about the conversations with Lizzie, my sister back home in London, where she good-naturedly nags me that my every update is all about work and she doesn’t care about boring old dudes in suits. I don’t tell Elle that the last three times I went out on the town, it was to the opera with tickets I won at a charity auction . . . and that I hate opera. I don’t tell Elle that I don’t have a single friend in the States to just catch a game or grab a pint with.
I haven’t considered that I might be lonely, the one who stays late after everyone else goes home to friends and family. But that reality is glaring me in the face as I wait for Elle to agree to this plan.
Her silence stretches as we maintain eye contact, neither of us giving in this time. I wonder what she sees when she looks at me.
The late afternoon sun highlights her through the wall of windows. From here, she’s even more beautiful. Long blonde hair that’s pulled slightly up to show off the perfect swan’s curve of a neck, shoulders . . . and I’ll privately admit to my own little fetish, ears that look like an artist sculpted them.
The idea of taking one of those perfect shells of soft skin and tugging on it with my teeth as I sink my cock balls deep inside her has me hard as a rock again.
I pace back and forth along the windows in hopes of giving my stones some relief.
I want her to be drawn to me, curious to peek behind the veil of the intensely private British executive that I know the company sees me as. And she’s a smart girl, knows this is a way out of the tediousness of a job she’s overqualified for.
“I’ll take your silence as you are caught between a rock and a hard place. And that maybe I’m taking the biscuit a bit with you. But regardless, this is an opportunity for you.” I intentionally focus on what it could mean to her personally, not what it’ll mean to me or her father, as a way of influencing her.
“And I have officially dared you to do it. So until you tell me to get on my bike, I’m going to assume you accept my . . . offer. When you come into work tomorrow, report to my office. Your first job will be to assist Helen with arranging a proper desk for you in this suite. All right?”
Elle blinks, still saying nothing, then tilts her head. “Mr. Wolfe . . . I have to admit I only understood about three-quarters of what you said. What’s taking the biscuit? And why are you riding a bike?”
I laugh, smiling hugely because she didn’t say no. “Just one of the skills you’ll learn working for me. If I see you in the outer office tomorrow by nine o’clock, I guess we’ll both know your answer. Choose wisely.”
Chapter 8
Elle
"Chug a lug, bitch. I need that tongue a’ wagging pronto.” Tiffany swallows her mouthful of wine before sticking her own tongue out, wiggling it rather obscenely in my direction.
“We’re not that kind of friends, Tiff,” I tease. But really, I’m trying to keep from discussing the topic at hand. The wine, my second glass, is working its magic, though, and it’s getting hard to play coy.
I’ll blame my so-slight buzz for what happens next. “He wants me underneath him.”
Tiffany’s glass nearly shatters as she slams it to the coffee table. Her feet find the floor as she stands up for the first time since we rolled into my apartment an hour ago. “What?”
I smirk, knowing I got her good. “Well, sorta. He offered me a job as his assistant.”
Tiffany is dancing around the room, in grave danger of tripping over her own two feet and my dirty laundry as she sings seriously off-key. “He wants you, he wa-a-a-ants you. Elle’s gonna get her some BBC!”
My eyes bug out. “What? What does BBC have to do with anything, and how much porn are you watching these days? Hitting on me and using Pornhub lingo?”
“Big British Cock,” she says with a nod like that’s obviously what that means. It so doesn’t. “And I’m not coming on to you, though I might consider it if you give me another glass of wine.” She drinks the last of it from her glass, raising it to ceiling in salute before pouring another. It’s a good thing she’s not driving home.
As she pours, she says under her breath, “He wants you to take his dick-tation. Bet he tea-bags and eats crumpets at the same time.” She throws her head back, almost spilling her near-full wine as she closes her eyes and says louder in a fake English accent, “Oh, my, I’m arriving! Arriving now!”
It takes me two blinks to realize she’s joking about coming and then I burst into laughter with her. We fall back on the couch, giggles erupting like a Coke and Mentos experiment is going off in our bellies.
“Quite splendid, indeed,” I say through the snorts, my fake accent only slightly better than Tiffany’s.
Eventually, we laugh ourselves out and the reality of the situation comes back to me heavily.
“What am I going to do?” I whine.
Tiffany’s look of ‘duh’ makes me feel like I’m missing something. “Work for him.”
I copy the look back because she’s the one not seeing the big picture here. Before I can argue, she holds up a hand and lifts one perfectly sculpted brow, daring me to interrupt her. I wisely shut my mouth and give her the floor to speak.
“You’re smart, he’s hot, so give it a shot.” She smiles messily. “I’m such a poet.” More clear-eyed, she says, “I’ll miss you and probably die of absolute boredom without you to make things interesting all day, but you need to grab this bull with both hands and hang on with all you’ve got.”
“You think?” I say, knowing I’ve already decided. I’d decided before I even walked out of his office today, if I’m being truthful.
Tiffany takes a sip, feigning casualness. “Does Daddy know yet?”
I’m too deep in my own shit to give her any about the nickname this time. “No, and he’s going to kill me, or Colton, or both of us.” It’s a real fear, but more importantly, I confess, “I don’t want to hurt him.”
She pats my hand consolingly. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head. I’ll be Daddy’s baby girl once you’re busy with the Big Bad Wolfe. I’m sure Daddy will need all sorts of comforting and I’m pretty good at that.”
She teasing, mostly. But then she goes one step too far. “After the wedding, do you want to call me Mother or Mom, you think?”
I kick out a foot, catching her in her middle, and she oofs. “Shut your filthy mouth about my dad, woman. Never gonna happen.” She tilts her head, not meeting my eyes as if that makes her able to ignore my decree. “It had better not. Girl. Code.”
She sighs, finally looking my way. “Fine. But how about if we trade tit-for-tat? You can break code and screw my brother, and in return, I get Daddy?”
I shake my head, grossed out. “No, I’m not fucking Ace. That ship sailed a long time ago. And you’re not fucking my dad. New subject . . . what am I going to wear?”
Fashion might be the only thing to get Tiffany’s attention off my dad, so I play that card intentionally.